


Keen Hopes and Fears

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Gen, Horror, Humor, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 18,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Two ships beset in the ice. Crews and officers struggling to cope with the darkness, an insidious illness, a supernatural threat - and each other. An ongoing collection of one-shot prompt fills about the men ofHMS ErebusandTerror.Updated 5/10/19: Ch. 23:Secret Comforts: Edward Little; Ch. 24:Held Fast: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames





	1. Lots: Edward Little

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "The Death of Sir John Franklin" by Algernon Charles Swinburne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt ["How can we live through this?"](http://alloftheprompts.tumblr.com/post/159495140697/writing-prompts) requested by mavrykcompany

“All the cans? Every single one of them?”

Little struggled to comprehend his captain’s revelation. Not about the tins being poisoned: that he could easily believe. Their contents hadn’t exactly been offensive, and he had wolfed down plenty of them: after an interminably long watch in temperatures on the wrong side of the zero mark, anything hot and semi-edible passed for delicious. But veal tomato and ox-cheek soup had seemed indistinguishable in taste and texture, and Little had found himself wondering from time to time if he was actually dining on jaded carriage horses.

But even jaded horse would hold off scurvy and that was all that mattered. Wasn’t it?

Crozier’s grim nod confirmed it. _All of the tins_. All of the tins he had eaten from, all of the tins they were still carrying, the tins that formed the bulk of their remaining provisions. They might as well have been hauling cans of arsenic and mercury.

“How can we live through this?” Little heard himself ask.

And immediately regretted it. He saw the winces, the pain sharp and flinty in the eyes fixed on his face, and he knew he had put into words something they were all wondering, but something that should have remained amorphous, lighter than air and possible - however difficult - to push aside. Now that he had given voice to it, it hung like a sword over their heads and demanded a response.

At least when the response came it was an honest one.

“I don’t know,” Crozier admitted. “We have no understanding of how this malady progresses, how long it takes or why it has manifested itself so strongly in some people - like poor Morfin - and not in others. Dr. Goodsir is being vigilant for symptoms, but there is nothing he can do at this point to mitigate the effects of food already ingested. All we can do is send out hunting parties and hope our luck changes for the better or, failing that, to continue moving south, until we find game or come across Netsilik people who can supply us with meat.”

“And in the meantime,” Irving ventured, “we continue eating from the tins?”

Crozier spread his hands. “What alternative do we have?”

There was one, but Little would not speak of it. Neither would the other men at the table, though he knew they were aware of it too. It loomed like a shadow at the back of their minds. Every man in the service had heard the stories: the nightmare tales, related in hushed whispers by whalers and traders, about sailors clinging to spars or crowded into ships’ boats after a wreck, set adrift on a merciless sea. If they were fortunate enough to have potable water with them, they staved off death long enough to feel the pangs of hunger. And when starvation put its bony hands upon them, they found themselves faced with a choice:

If one of their shipmates had already died, the choice was made for them.

If not, a piece of wood was splintered and lots were drawn.

_Lots_. The very thought chilled Little. Men’s lives reduced to the shortest or longest stick.

“It’s a game of chance, then,” Little said, and Crozier gave one brisk nod of assent. There was nothing else to be said. They would keep eating poison and keep moving south, and some men would fall by the wayside while others struggled on. And there would be no better explanation for why one man sickened and another stayed well than one man’s bad fortune versus another man’s good.

Little had never considered himself to be particularly lucky.


	2. Like the Ancient Mariner: Sir John Franklin & James Fitzjames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "I think we're lost" requested by iceboundterror

Fitzjames woke to find Bridgens leaning over him, candle in hand.

“Bridgens.” He struggled upright. “Has something happened?”

“Forgive me, sir, I’m not quite sure.” Bridgens bit his lip. “It’s just-- It’s the captain, sir.”

“The captain?” Fitzjames swung his legs out of his bunk and began pulling on his boots. “Has he taken ill?”

“In a manner of speaking. Just follow me, sir.”

Fitzjames rushed after Bridgens into the mess. Sir John sat at the head of the table, wrapped in a dressing gown, a lit lantern placed at his elbow. Fitzjames drew a sharp breath. In the firelight Franklin looked a decade older at least, a shrunken and fragile old man, withering away in front of him.

“Leave us, Bridgens.” At the sound of Fitzjames’s voice, Franklin gave a start, as if he had not been aware of the other men’s entrance.

“James?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I’m here, Sir John.” Fitzjames sat down and put his hand gently on the older man’s arm. “What troubles you?”

Sir John closed his eyes and shook his head, lifting his free hand to pass over his forehead. “I-- I feel a fool, James. I had a bad dream, I-- I think I must have called out in my sleep. Bridgens heard me. I am sorry to have disturbed everyone--"

“You’ve done no such thing,” Fitzjames told him. “Set your mind at ease, sir. If there is anything I might do--"

“I dreamt of her, James.” Sir John turned to stare at him. The lantern light failed to reach his eyes: they were like fathomless black pools, and James flinched a little as they fixed on his face.

“Who, sir?”

“Jane. She was in our garden, but it was a maze now. Not a maze of hedges, but one of ice. I could see her, through the walls of the maze, but try as I might, I could not reach her.” Sir John’s lips trembled and he raised his hand again, pressing his fingers to his mouth as if to stop this show of emotion. “She was calling out to me, James. She was telling me something and I-- I fear that she was right.”

Fitzjames felt an odd uneasiness spread through his limbs, as if his blood had suddenly frozen in his veins. “Right, sir? Right about what?”

Sir John stared at him. “She said that we were lost. And I-- I fear, James… I fear that we are.”

“Nonsense, sir,” Fitzjames said, relief flooding through him, chasing the unease away. “That is the nonsense of dreams talking. You yourself have placed our position on the charts with perfect accuracy--"

“No, James.” Sir John shook his head, his tone very low and somber. “Not that kind of lost. Lost like the Ancient Mariner. Fated to wander without shelter or comfort, far from all that we love.” Sir John drew a deep breath. “I would not — _I will not_ — say it to the men, to Francis. I will not say it in the light of day. But I wonder… I think we’re lost, James. _I think we’re doomed_.”


	3. From Very Far Away: Harry Goodsir/Silna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt list "The way you said I love you," #18: _From very far away_ , for cherrypoison1889.

He had returned to Scotland after the rescue, returned to the limitless green of the hills, the distant mountains purple with their cloaks of heather. To Edinburgh and gaslight, to microscopes and chimney smoke. It was his home, his world - but it was not hers, and he was neither cruel nor arrogant enough to expect that it could be.

Harry Goodsir was not a cruel or arrogant man.

Yet he missed her. When the turn of the season brought the first chill to touch his cheek, when he saw a flower so perfect in its wild simplicity that he felt God’s breath upon him and tears started in his eyes, when the vocabulary of the English language seemed insufficient for some concept and a word in Inuktitut came unbidden to his tongue: then he thought of her, and the ache in his chest was like a sword wound that never healed.

She had placed her hand upon his chest, a gesture of friendship, and his last word to her had been one of apology. No, not the last. As he had watched her walk away from him, into a fog that devoured her - her form and color and even the sound of her footsteps on the shale - he had spoken again. Maybe in the unnatural silence of the fog his words had carried and she had heard him, and though he had spoken in English maybe she had remembered enough of what he’d taught her to understand his meaning. He had waited for a few moments, hoping she’d retrace her steps, and even when he turned toward camp his flesh had vibrated with the expectation - the hope - that her hand would grasp his arm and remain there: during the long trek south, during the voyage across the sea.

But she had not followed him and Harry knew that had been for the best.

Still, he longed for her. And when he went out into the wilderness of the hills, or stood upon a beach washed by cold northern waters - when the sounds of man’s machinery were left in the distance behind him - he sometimes thought he could hear her, calling out to him from the icy environs of her frozen world. Her voice, as he had heard it before the creature demanded her tongue as sacrifice: warm, curious, and kind.

She answered his last words from very far away, told him that yes, she loved him too.


	4. A Cold Game: James Fitzjames & Francis Crozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for kiev4am who requested _snow being shoved down the back of your coat_ from this [sensory prompt list](http://heir-to-the-diamond-throne.tumblr.com/post/151164415366/64-sensory-prompts).

A month after Sir John’s death, the football games had resumed, encouraged by the officers. It was still summer, after all - what passed for that season at such a latitude - and it was deemed a healthy exercise for the men. On that particular afternoon, many of the officers came out to observe the match, for nothing less than the pride of their respective ships was at stake. After four games, _Terror_ and _Erebus_ were tied for wins. Despite the several inches of fresh snow, and the thick flurries of flakes still descending from the leaden sky, the current match would decide the champions. Fitzjames wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Although a part of him would have preferred to be in the thick of the game himself, Fitzjames knew the involvement of an officer would have spoiled the men’s fun. So he restrained himself and stood off to one side of the icy pitch, Le Vesconte beside him. He was engrossed in watching _Terror_ ’s Peglar make a drive for the _Erebus_ goal - two piles of ice and snow somewhat resembling deformed snowmen - when Henry elbowed him in the ribs.

“This is an auspicious occasion indeed,” he murmured, nodding to the other side of the cleared playing field. “Even the _Terror_ ’s captain has deigned to join us.”

Crozier stood near the spectators from _Terror_ with lieutenants Little and Hodgson, impassive even as Peglar kicked the ball past _Erebus_ ’s goalkeeper. Fitzjames sighed.

“Can you imagine having so negligible a sense of fun? I cannot.”

Le Vesconte smiled. “This coming from someone who may be said to have an excess of that sense.”

“My dear Henry, there’s no such thing as too much fun. The very idea is an affront to nature.”

“Your nature, perhaps.” Le Vesconte shrugged as he regarded Crozier. “It is possible for life to kick the fun right out of a person, is it not?”

Fitzjames’s expression was pained. “I suppose some people tell themselves that, yes. But for my own part, I cannot comprehend it. What point would there be to continue living in such a case? Is not an exuberant sense of enjoyment one of the things that helps a person to endure life’s misfortunes?”

“Why do you allow him to get under your skin to such an extent?” Le Vesconte asked, genuinely curious. Fitzjames rounded on him.

“Francis Crozier, under my skin? Hardly. I don’t give two figs how he chooses to be.”

Le Vesconte pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it quickly before replacing it inside his coat.

“Though it galls me, the effect his perpetual melancholy is likely to have upon the men,” Fitzjames added suddenly. Le Vesconte took out his pocket watch again.

“Eleven seconds.”

“What?”

“A mere eleven seconds elapsed between you declaring that Crozier isn’t under your skin and your next complaint about him.”

Fitzjames opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by a sudden scuffle upon the field of ice. One of the _Erebus_ crew was complaining loudly about a maneuver by one of the Terrorites, which has caused the second man’s teammates to gather around him and begin hurling invective back at his accuser.

“Where is the referee?” Fitzjames asked.

“There isn’t one. There was no one who could be neutral and, even if there had been, he would have been bullied mercilessly on his own ship had he given the win to the other team,” Le Vesconte told him. “We thought about recruiting Goodsir to the role, but that just seemed cruel.”

“Then how is this row to be settled?”

Another Erebite had joined the fray in defense of his teammate and had just started denouncing the _Terror_ team’s tactics in a ringing voice when a snowball exploded in his face.

“Oh dear,” Le Vesconte murmured.

The football was abruptly abandoned near the _Erebus_ goalpost. A new game, featuring a plethora of smaller, faster projectiles, began in earnest, and so enthusiastic were the men about their new sport that all decorum and caution were forgotten. Hodgson had already taken a snowball to the side of the head, and it was only by ducking quickly and scurrying off down the side of the pitch that Fitzjames and Le Vesconte managed to escape a similar humiliation.

“Shouldn’t we put a stop to it?” Le Vesconte asked.

“No. Let the men have their contest. Better that they fight it out with snow than fists.” Fitzjames glanced across the field to where Crozier was backing away from the melee. “I can only hope one snowball goes astray and hits Ireland. Perhaps that’s what the man needs to shock some joy back into him.”

Le Vesconte had walked several feet further before he realized that Fitzjames was no longer striding beside him. He turned to find the other man standing still, a bright gleam in his eyes that reminded Le Vesconte all too clearly of cheetah spots and long sultry days on the Indian Ocean.

“James,” Le Vesconte was shaking his head, “you wouldn’t…”

The other man’s lips curved wickedly upward. “Wouldn’t I, Henry?”

Closing his eyes briefly, Le Vesconte sighed. “Of course you would.”

He may have feigned resigned disapproval, but Le Vesconte could barely contain a fit of giggles as he watched James Fitzjames, RN, captain of the _HMS Erebus_ , circle around to the opposite side of the ice pitch, fall to his hands and knees, and crawl behind a ridge of piled snow, hidden from Crozier’s sight. Le Vesconte followed at a casual pace, avoiding the snowballs, strolling up to the _Terror_ ’s officers to be on hand for the fatal attack.

“Quite a game,” Le Vesconte said, nodding at the pitch where the crews were almost covered in snow.

“Which one?” Hodgson asked. He was brushing snow from the back of his head after taking yet another hit.

“Well, I almost like this one better than the football,” Le Vesconte commented. He kept his eye on Crozier, standing with his back to the snow ridge behind which Fitzjames knelt.

“Oh?” Little turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “So was that the _Erebus_ strategy all along, then? To start a snowball fight when it was clear you were losing?”

“I don’t think--" Le Vesconte broke off his response when Crozier emitted a howl of surprise.

“Who in the bloody hell!--"

Fitzjames had jumped up from behind the snow ridge and dumped a mitten-full of snow into Crozier’s scarf, down the back of his neck. Grimacing with fury, Crozier rounded on him, no doubt expecting to find one of the crewman fleeing from a misjudged prank.

Instead he found Fitzjames, smiling, arms spread.

“Just getting into the spirit of the day, Francis. Feel free to retaliate.”

His expression a perfect blank, Crozier reached up behind him and scooped as much of the snow out of his scarf as he could. Flinging the wet stuff to the pack, he dusted off his mittens and took three strides forward until he stood mere inches from Fitzjames.

“Oh don’t worry. I will,” Crozier said, his voice even, his tone hushed. “But not here. My retaliation will come at a time and place you least expect it.” He held Fitzjames’s gaze for a long, silent moment, then nodded. “You might want to sleep with one eye open from now on, James.”

Turning, Crozier strolled coolly away, Hodgson and Little - casting significant glances back at Fitzjames - following him. The melee on the ice went on uninterrupted. Fitzjames looked at Le Vesconte and smiled. He was silent for a moment. Then he said:

“I’m frightened, Henry.”

“Goodbye,” Le Vesconte said, suppressing a laugh and walking off towards _Erebus_.

“Protect me, Henry!”

“It’s been nice knowing you, James.”

“Henry, you’re my friend! Don’t walk away from me!”

The snowball fight continued.


	5. The Wanting: John Irving/Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For gargantua01

He thought the expedition had worn him down to his bones already. He thought it had tested him in every possible way it could. Danger, privation, loss. Challenges to authority and morality. The tenacity of the darkness, the unremitting cold. In England he had thought himself strong enough to withstand all such trials, had believed the armor - forged of faith and self-confidence - that he bound to himself would render him impervious to all forms of weakness.

Truly, the ways of the Lord were mysterious. Here, on this rock in the Arctic wastes, God had chosen to humble John Irving. He had been shown the error of his ways, the hollowness of his own surety. His armor had proved an illusion woven out of air. No, he still had his faith, and he held to it as he had all these long, miserable months, a warmth in the cold darkness cradled against his chest. But his confidence in himself had shattered like ice struck by a pick axe. The worst test of all had come and John Irving had been found wanting.

Edward Little had laid a hand upon the top of his thigh.

It had meant nothing to the first lieutenant, John knew. However cold and aloof Little might seem to the crew, among his messmates he was companionable, warm, even gregarious. He was comfortable with physical interaction in a way John never had been, laying a hand upon a fellow officer’s arm or shoulder when encouragement was needed, or a slap to the back when praise was due. Once, during the winter on Beechey, he had even tousled John’s hair teasingly when the third lieutenant had come to relieve Little’s cold watch in the magnetic observation tent. Such gestures came easily to Edward. They felt as impossible to John as breathing underwater.

The worst part was that every touch had made of John a whited sepulcher. Even as he had stood in the snow, lecturing that devil Hickey, he had felt the stain of hypocrisy on his bones. Each of Edward’s touches had chipped away at the image of himself John held in his mind, until he no longer recognized the face reflected in his shaving mirror. His hands were strangers to him, trembling with need.

He had prayed about this more than he had about the unrelenting ice, imploring God to take away the wanting, the constant ache in flesh and heart. Yet it only grew more intense. He could no longer converse easily with Edward, as he had in the early days of the voyage, constantly fearing that some look or word would reveal he was no longer the same John Irving that had first boarded the ship. Somewhere in that white otherworld he had been replaced with a changeling, a creature of strange hungers. One night in his cabin, John had held his fingers over the flame of his candle until he smelled his skin burning, hoping to drive the wicked imp away.

But its teeth were driven deep inside him and it would not move.

Then came the moment in the tent on King William Land, Edward’s hand patting his thigh as they discussed the coming hunt. John felt his face redden, his eyes unfocus, and his thoughts grew so loud and confused that even the captain’s voice faded into the background, lost and meaningless beneath the pounding of his heart. It was as clear to John as a revelation, as if an angel in robes of blinding whiteness had lit on the table before him and laid a finger like a bolt of lightning upon his brow.

He was in love with Edward Little.

And he was tired of fighting it. He could only wage so many battles at once: against scurvy, against mutiny, against the perpetual cold. He no longer possessed the energy, or the desire, to war against himself. They had come to the end of the line on that shale-strewn hell and if he was going to God, he could not go to Him a liar. He could only stand before his Maker as his true self.

And if, by some miracle, he survived…

Perhaps all of Edward’s touches hadn’t been casual gestures at all. Perhaps there had been a deeper meaning behind them that John, so mired in guilt, had failed to understand. But even if not, John owed Edward honesty. He owed him the truth of how his touch made him feel. He owed him the confession of his love: so long denied, and so enduring.

John Irving walked out of the officers’ meeting, his face turned up toward the sun. He felt more free than he had since boyhood, as if he might spread his arms wide and ascend living to the heavens. At last he knew himself. And he would unburden his heart and reveal his feelings to the object of his affection, without fear, without guilt.

As soon as he returned from the hunting party, he would tell Edward of his love.


	6. The Malady: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "a necessary punishment," requested by lafiametta
> 
> Warning for mild gore/blood
> 
> Featuring implied Hickey/Tozer and Crozier/Fitzjames

Thomas Jopson was simply too kind-hearted.

The strange malady had ravaged both ships, leaving a dozen bone-bleached corpses scattered across the ice. The mad surgeon, source of the contagion, had been beheaded, a spike made from a hammered iron hook driven through his heart before his body was consigned to a hole in the pack. It was a blighted place now where the water never froze, and even the bears avoided it.

More men had been turned than killed, and severe measures taken to quarantine them and contain the evil before it spread further. Small huts built of tent canvas and ice, rimed with frost and blending with the pack, dotted the areas around both ships, and these too were avoided by all living things. Beneath the pale polar sun the huts sat silent and innocuous, but under the moon the still air trembled with wretched whines and the screams of one thing dying and another being born.

Yet it pained Thomas Jopson to think of them, stranded in the cold without comforts, unfed and friendless. It was only the captain’s and Blanky’s strictest admonitions that kept him from venturing out to the huts, and even those proved insufficient when Edward Little succumbed.

Rank afforded no privileges once the infection took hold. Like the others, Little was cast out, to suffer the necessary punishment of an uncommitted crime. But Jopson, tending the same secret flame he had harbored for the lieutenant since the earliest days of the expedition, could not bear the thought of his lonely exile. One night, when the ships creaked and groaned in their cold beds, Jopson left his cabin and made his quiet way out onto the pack.

The hut in which Little had been imprisoned was the farthest from _Terror_ ’s stern, ringed by hummocks that glistened with the reflection of the aurora above. Jopson hardly felt the cold as he crossed the distance, blood heated by the speed with which his heart pumped it through his frame. Inhuman moans rose from distant structures, mixing with the mournful cries of the ice, but Little’s hut sat still and silent, and for a moment Jopson feared he’d come too late.

But the lieutenant yet lived - if living it was, this strange new state he’d entered. Like the others, the cold seemed no longer to affect him. He crouched on the ice, bare-headed and gloveless, and he watched Jopson enter the hut with a feral stare out of the tops of his eyes. A length of anchor chain was wrapped around him, secured to a stake driven deep into the ice, and Jopson could see that in moments of wildness he’d fought his restraints, for a rough link of chain had sliced through greatcoat and shirt, baring a wide swath of chest smeared with blood and blood-matted hair.

“Hello Thomas. _Missed me?_ ”

The taciturn lieutenant that Jopson had known was gone, replaced by something that made the steward’s palms slick with sweat in the sub-zero air. Something that leered at him with dark eyes gone onyx, that grinned wolfishly and boldly swiped a red tongue across the tips of prominent canine teeth. Little raked a gaze of naked hunger up and down Jopson’s body before focusing on the bag the steward held in one hand. “Come to feed me?” he asked, and his voice was raw with thirst and need.

“In a manner of speaking.” Jopson dropped the bag on the ice, then pulled from it a bolt cutter he’d stolen from the carpenter’s stores. With this he snapped the anchor chain free of the stake in the ice. Kneeling then, a few feet in front of Little, he began to undress: Welsh wig and gloves, greatcoat and neckerchief, waistcoat and shirt. He tossed them all aside and waited, the chill air sharp as knives, as Little - hair hanging down into his ravenous eyes - crawled towards him on all fours.

The bravest among the men had died, refusing to succumb, turning away from the siren’s song of survival, be it true life or some mockery thereof. They’d been found drained of blood, flesh shredded, all that remained gone white as the drifts. Others had been turned, and though Goodsir had his theories, no one knew for certain how the transformation was accomplished.

Thomas Jopson intended to find out.

“Do you trust me, Thomas?” Little asked, and he was close enough now that Jopson felt the warmth of his breath ghost across his bare skin.

This man he loved might kill him, Jopson knew. But this - _God, this_ \- was worth the risk. He thought back on all the surreptitious glances, the accidental brush of bodies in crowded rooms, and took a deep, steadying breath. “I trust you, Edward.”

And Edward sprang.

It was hard to differentiate between the pain and the pleasure. Jopson had desired it so long - this suffocating embrace against Edward’s body, the heat of the lieutenant’s mouth on his throat - that the pain of his tearing flesh, the puncture of his veins, seemed of little consequence. He closed his eyes and leaned back, offering more of himself, and Edward feasted: biting and suckling and lapping up every fresh drop of blood he drew as Jopson murmured his name, over and over, running sweat-dampened, trembling fingers through dark, tangled hair.

He was still breathing, his heart still beating with the ferocity of a ship’s cannon, when Edward paused, sated for the moment, his lips still crimson and wet. And that was when Jopson fell upon him in turn, and lowering his head to the lieutenant’s chest, began to slowly lick every trace of blood from the wounds the wicked chain had inflicted upon his beloved’s flesh.

“Thomas.”

His name was a rough exhalation from Edward’s mouth and Jopson smiled against the lieutenant’s sternum to hear the need in it, the long-suppressed desperation. The salty, metallic tang of blood heavy in his mouth, Jopson licked and kissed and nibbled his way across Edward’s pectorals, then up until he reached his throat, his jaw, his glistening iron-flavored lips. And they tasted one another’s blood on their tangled tongues and knew the covenant between them had been sealed.

As he began his transformation, Jopson spared one last thought for his shipmates. For Crozier, sitting alone in his cabin, using whiskey to deaden his senses so he could no longer hear the creature that had once been James Fitzjames, howling at him from the ice beneath his stateroom windows. For Sergeant Tozer, stepping off the minutes of his watch with rifle in his hands, ignoring the blandishments offered by the caulker’s mate, a red-headed wraith slipping between the ice ridges. For Blanky, who’d vowed he’d sail the ship to hell before he would let those finds take him. Jopson pitied them all.

The passage he found in Edward’s arms was greater than any sea route to China.


	7. The Fortuneteller: Harry Goodsir/James Fitzjames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "fingertips smudged in blue ink," for pottedmusic

They had been sitting in companionable silence for some minutes, Goodsir scribbling hurriedly away in his journal, Fitzjames selecting daguerreotypes from the naturalist’s neatly organized box and holding each one up to the lantern light to examine. The scraping sound of a fiddle and a chorus of men’s voices trickled down the passageway from the forward living quarters, while the ever-present groan of the ice served as a bass line from beyond the wooden walls of the hull.

Goodsir laid his pen down in the gutter between pages and, squeezing his eyes shut behind his spectacles for a moment, grimaced as he flexed his fingers.

“I shouldn’t wonder.” Fitzjames slid the last daguerreotype back in the box and pushed it aside. “You’ve written more than Mr. Dickens in the last hour, surely.”

“There are times when an idea comes into my head and I feel– compelled, I suppose, to get it down on paper before it loses all its detail and color,” Goodsir explained. “For instance, I was just considering the possibility that the genus _Cyanea_ is…” His voice trailed off as Fitzjames grasped his right hand and, turning it over, eased his fingers open. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Working the ache out.” Gently, Fitzjames pressed his thumbs into Goodsir’s palm, massaging in slow circles up towards the fingers. “Pens can be murder on a sailor’s hand. Or a naturalist’s. Trust me, I know. I spend enough time with the log.”

Goodsir gave a little laugh, watching Fitzjames work. “I did think, for a moment, that you were about to tell my fortune.”

Looking up sharply, Fitzjames grinned. “That can be arranged.” Jumping up, he turned to Goodsir’s bunk and yanked the topmost blanket off the mattress, then draped it over his head like a shawl. Turning back to face Goodsir, he threw one corner of the blanket dramatically over his right shoulder. “Madame Bowline, at your service!” he declared in the high, reedy voice of an old woman. “Now my _good sir_ , if you will but cross my palm with a coin, I will pierce the veil of mystery between this moment and the future and tell all that your flesh portends!”

Grinning, Goodsir dug into the pocket of his trousers. “I think I might just… Ah, yes. Here you are, my lady.” He placed a half crown in Fitzjames’s hand.

Fitzjames sneered down at the coin. “Well, I suppose that will serve as sufficient renumeration. How an honest woman is to support herself these days, I do not pretend to know.” He resumed his seat and, with a flourish, took up Goodsir’s hand again. “I call the arcane powers down upon me to read your fate in these lines! Hmmm. _Ahhh_ , indeed. Yes, yes! I see success! Much success! I see reams upon reams of publications! I see the Royal Geographical Society… A gathering of dignitaries, all applauding… A medal!” Fitzjames moved his fingertips softly across Goodsir’s palm, a whisper of a touch that sent tingles spiraling up the back of Goodsir’s neck. “I see dons of Oxford… or is it Cambridge?… my heavens, it’s both!… their black robes flapping around them like ravens’ wings… They are begging you to grace their ancient colleges with your learned presence, but no! I see you sailing on open, balmy seas… I see islands dotted with palm trees… I see Africa’s shores… I see this very palm being caressed by the tip of an elephant’s trunk! And I see…” Fitzjames bent closer over Goodsir’s hand.

An unaccountable nervousness jumped up inside the other man. “What is it?”

Fitzjames glanced up into Goodsir’s eyes, pointing at a line in the middle of the naturalist’s palm. “Your love line. Do you see? It is long, but it is also deep. That means you are very beloved, by many, many people.” His thumb tracked slowly along the crooked line. “And that, in all your life, you will never want for love.”

Fitzjames had spoken these last words in his own voice, lapsing out of his falsetto. Goodsir swallowed. He felt the frivolity of the moment slipping away and, not knowing how to respond, fumbled to reclaim it.

“And what else do you see?” he whispered.

“I see…” Fitzjames paused, stroking up Goodsir’s fingers. The falsetto fell away again. “You have ink on your fingertips.”

“Yes, I daresay I will be writing much in the future as well,” Goodsir said, words choked out over a nervous laugh.

“No, I mean–” Fitzjames lifted Goodsir’s hand to show him. “Right now. Almost every finger.” He had dropped all pretense of playacting but had not released Goodsir’s hand.

“A hazard of the trade, I suppose,” Goodsir mumbled. “It is no matter…”

Goodsir’s voice stuttered to a halt as Fitzjames raised his hand to his mouth and began pressing kisses to his ink-stained fingertips. Slowly - index to middle, middle to ring - then beginning again, he let his lips linger, warm and moist against Goodsir’s flesh.

“I do not think a respectable fortune teller would dare do so,” Goodsir murmured, transfixed.

Fitzjames looked up at him, dark eyes glossy in the light of the lantern. “Perhaps not. But an English sailor would.”


	8. Bowline Knot: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little

“I take it this isn’t an integral part of the rigging.”

It was late evening, well into the first watch, and Jopson had come to Little’s cabin, ostensibly to mend the cuffs of several shirts. It was a job Gibson would ordinarily have handled, but he was busy with mending for Hodgson, so Jopson had volunteered for the extra duty, having already gotten the captain to bed. Yet his needle and thread lay unused on the lieutenant’s desk, and rather than sitting hunched over a stack of garments, the steward was stretched out on the bunk, leaning back against the bulkhead and against Little, wrapped comfortably in the other man’s arms. Spotting a length of frayed rope on the desk, Jopson had picked it up and was twisting it between his hands while Little fingered the pattern woven in the sleeve of the steward’s jumper.

“I was testing Hornby and Thomas on their knots.”

“And did they meet your exacting standards?” Jopson asked, his tone teasing.

“Well enough.”

“Hmm. I’m afraid I would not, we stewards only being required to know how to tie off a thread.”

“I wouldn’t worry.” Little rubbed the tip of his nose against the side of Jopson’s head, breathing deeply of his scent. “You meet my standards in every other way.”

Blushing prettily, Jopson turned to press a kiss to Little’s lips. “Still. You could improve my education, you know.”

“Improve it?”

Jopson shook the rope. “Teach me how to tie a knot. A proper sailor’s knot.”

Smiling, Little reached forward to grasp the rope, his hands sliding over Jopson’s. “I can deny you nothing. Very well. I’ll teach you a bowline. It’s the most useful.”

Little shifted his position, leaning forward against Jopson’s back to better reach around him with both arms. He placed his hands over the steward’s, guiding their movement of the rope.

“The first step is to make a loop in this side.” Little squeezed Jopson’s left hand gently, whispering his instructions against the hinge of the other man’s jaw. “That’s your standing line, all right? Now you want to make sure your loop is facing in this direction, the end of the rope laying along the top. Make sense?”

“Yes.” Jopson nestled back against Little, giving a sigh of contentment. “Now what?”

“Take the end of the rope back and up, through the loop.” Jopson did as he was instructed, letting Little’s hand rest atop his own, their arms moving in unison. “Then bring it under the standing line--”

“Like this?”

“No, other way.” Little corrected him, his fingertips running over Jopson’s knuckles as he demonstrated where to place the rope end. “There, you have it. Now back through the loop.” He moved his hand again, guiding Jopson’s, feeling the other man’s wrist bone pivot against his palm. “Hold the end against the loop and pull it taut.”

“Just like that?” Little could hear the pleased surprise in Jopson’s voice as he drew the knot tight, forming a small circle.

“Just like that.” He pressed his mouth to Jopson’s jaw, the steward’s stubble pricking against his lips. “Well done.”

“All credit goes to my teacher.” Jopson wriggled backwards against Little. “He’s very hands-on.”

Little replied by sucking on Jopson’s earlobe, winning a breathy sigh in response. “With such a student, it’s hard not to be.”

“So tell me, teacher.” Though Little’s face was still turned in against Jopson’s jaw, he could discern the steward’s wide grin in his tone. “What makes the bowline knot so useful?”

“Well, it’s strong. It can be used to bind almost anything.” Little moved his fingers around the loop of rope and this time Jopson followed, his touch catching up to glide over the prominent bones and tendons in the back of the lieutenant’s hand. Little interspersed his words with gentle nibbles to the rim of Jopson’s ear.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” He drew the loop down so it encircled both of Jopson’s wrists. “And once the knot’s been tied, it won’t come loose. It holds fast. Endures.” He took both of Jopson’s bound hands in his, caressing them, tracing along the line of each finger. “Through any kind of weather. Through the roughest seas.”

Jopson turned his head toward Little, the tip of his nose slotting against the lieutenant’s, their lips a hairsbreadth apart. The steward’s wide eyes brimmed with a clear, eager light that made Little’s heart lodge in his throat.

“We’re not talking about knots anymore, are we?”

“No Thomas.” Pressing a soft kiss to Jopson’s brow, Little moved his lips down the slope of the other man’s nose to meet his mouth. “At least not the kind made with rope.”


	9. Bathtime: James Fitzjames/Francis Crozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _titillate_

Crozier had arrived at the door of the great cabin on _Erebus_ like a descending thundercloud, trailing flecks of ice and snow from the hem of his greatcoat. Bridgens had tried to turn him away, had interposed himself bodily between the captain and his own commander’s privacy, but to no avail. Francis was in one of his tempers: it had propelled him out of the relative warmth of his cabin and across the ice through a veritable blizzard, and nothing would keep him from the confrontation he’d been rehearsing in his head. 

Not even Fitzjames’s bathtime.

Now he stood on the other side of the folding screen that had been set up between the table and the stove to insulate the bather from the chill, all his angry words evaporating like the steam rising from the tub. Stuttering and stammering, Francis groped in his head for the thread of his argument, but it had run off and hidden itself somewhere behind a bare white knee.

“What’s wrong, Francis? Ship’s cat got your tongue?”

Nonplussed by the invasion, Fitzjames stretched, the movement sending a ripple through water and ropes of lean muscle. The copper tubs carried aboard the ships for the exclusive use of the captains were too small to comfortably accommodate a man of Fitzjames’s height, and thus various lengths of him protruded from the water, bare and slick and glistening in the weak sunlight streaming in the cabin windows. One arm lay stretched along the rim of the tub while the other was bent, hand dragging a sodden cloth over a torso bare almost to the navel. Francis’s glance caught on a nipple made dusky red by the heat and he coughed, working a finger beneath his collar. Jopson had clearly tied his neckcloth too tightly that morning.

“I’ve been talking for the last five minutes, at least,” Francis snarled once he could breathe a bit more easily.

“And yet to come to a point.” Fitzjames closed his eyes and let his head fall back. His pale neck was elongated by the action, Adam’s apple bobbing prominently as he spoke again. “There’s been so many stops and starts I’ve hardly been able to make sense of it.” Raising his head, he pinned Francis with a dark, inquisitive stare. “Perhaps you suffered some affliction on your way here from _Terror_. Should I call Dr. Stanley--"

“There’s nothing wrong with me, goddamnit!” Passing a mittened hand over his brow, Francis sighed. “I told you. Mr. Diggle came to me this morning, complaining about four pounds of butter that were removed from our stores and brought to this ship--"

“Well that’s hardly my business, is it? You should be speaking to Mr. Wall.” Fitzjames stretched his left arm out before him, scrubbing at his skin with the cloth. Droplets pattered against the surface of the bath water pooled over Fitzjames’s groin, drawing Francis’s attention. He saw blurred, flesh-colored shapes beneath a film of soap and turned quickly to study the stove. “You don’t imagine I gave an order? What would I be doing with four pounds of butter?”

“Heaven knows. Making a balm for your skin, perhaps? A gloss for your hair?”

Fitzjames smirked. “You must think my skin inordinately soft and my hair peculiarly shiny to make such an accusation.”

“Would you please just answer the question?”

“What question? You’ve yet to ask one.” Fitzjames raised one leg from the water, hooking his foot over the edge of the tub, and proceeded to run the cloth down its length, curving forward, his shoulders rounding. A lock of steam-lank hair fell over one eye. Francis swallowed tightly.

“I asked– Did you-- Has Wall-- Was there a requisition-- _Oh bloody hell_!” He pointed a shaking finger at Fitzjames. “You can’t win an argument on its merits, so you resort to distraction!”

“Distraction?” Fitzjames’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Francis, I don’t understand. What has distracted you?” Francis made a strangled sound as he searched for words. The corners of Fitzjames’s mouth twitched.

“Is it me, Francis?” His voice was quiet, innocent. “Do you find me distracting?”

Crozier puffed his chest out and sneered. “Not in the least.”

His words, spoken as he pivoted to stride from the cabin, might have proved more dramatic had Francis not forgotten about the folding screen at his back. As it was, he barreled straight into it, knocking the entire contraption to the floor with a noise like the report of a six-pounder.

“What’s your hurry, Francis?” Fitzjames called as Crozier hastened to the door, bustling past a bewildered Bridgens. “I was just going to ask you to help wash my back.”


	10. Forbidden Fruit: James Fitzjames/Harry Goodsir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _titillate_ , requested by hungry-hobbits

He accepted now that he was captivated, bewitched. He had suspected it for many months, felt it stealing over him, intruding upon his waking thoughts, possessing his dreams. He surrendered himself to it without hesitation, for it was one of his sources of warmth in that dismal place, a secret fire he tended, unseen and unshared by anyone else, the only entrapment he welcomed.

And to think he had been snared by so small a thing. He was preoccupied by it, utterly transfixed by the prospect of touching it, of feeling its softness twined about his fingers. So many times he had caught himself on the verge of reaching out to claim it right in front of the other men that it seemed like a purposeful provocation, a dangling of forbidden fruit just within his grasp. Yet he knew Harry had no such intention and, even if he’d had, the naturalist would never have suspected he could capture his commander with so insignificant a trap.

But it was not insignificant - not to James. Nothing about Harry was. Not his wide eyes, their dark green edging into hazel, nor the enthusiasm that lit them or the kindness that softened their gleam. Not his hands, gentle and clever, moving dexterously around a wound or cradling a fossil as if it were made of glass.

Yet of all the parts of Harry he loved - yes, loved - it was the little one James so longed to touch that distracted and excited and confounded him most. What kind of sailor, what leader of men was he, James wondered, to be so wholly undone and defeated by a curl of dark hair, laying innocently against his beloved’s brow?


	11. Catalyst: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _covet_ , requested by lafiametta

Generous, selfless Jopson. That was what the captain thought of him, Thomas knew. He could see it plainly in the fond, paternal glances Crozier sometimes bestowed upon him, in the playful wink with which he’d dismiss him for an hour or an evening, encouraging him to take some time for himself.

It almost shamed Thomas, to have deceived the captain so completely. He hadn’t done it intentionally, true, but neither had he tried to disabuse Crozier of the erroneous notion. He was a grasping, covetous, selfish man. He spent his hours of work amassing a list of the things he wanted, and when released from his duties he took them, making no apologies for his greed. And his greed increased by the hour, until it knew no limits and he moved through the motions of his day thinking constantly of how to satisfy his desires.

When he’d boarded _Terror_ at the beginning of the expedition, Thomas had been somewhat closer to Crozier’s idea of him. All he had wanted then was to serve his captain to the best of his abilities, and fulfill his obligations with discretion and honor. But the journey had changed him. A catalyst had worked upon him, chipping away at his virtues, wearing down his almost ascetic self-denial, until Thomas had been transformed into an uncivilized, ravenous creature, a bundle of pulsing nerves and raw flesh that wanted and wanted and could not be satisfied.

And each day at the mess, under the captain’s watchful eye, Thomas confronted that catalyst. He had tried, for a time, to defeat and resist it, but he had long since given up the battle, weakness being another of his manifold failings. His nobler instincts were no match for the power of a pair of dark eyes rimmed with long black lashes, of a smile so rarely bestowed that its charm - once glimpsed - was nothing short of devastating. Thomas had no natural immunity to defend himself against halting, tentative expressions of regard, or cheeks reddened by cold winds or blushes or both. And once he’d succumbed, Thomas had fallen farther and faster than the worst opium-eater laying dazed in some back alley den. He was as much an unrepentant addict, and everyday he required more of his intoxicant to reach the same, blissful high.

So when Crozier dismissed him for the evening, smiling beatifically at his selfless steward, Thomas felt a small pang of guilt. But there were things he’d determined that day that he must possess or perish from want of, and guilt could not stop him from their immediate pursuit. He took off his boots and his coat, leaving them in his cabin, and crept down the passage in stockinged feet, trembling with the violence of his hunger.

Edward Little was roused from sleep by the soft scrape of teeth against the hinge of his jaw, by the weight of another body pressing against his own.

“Thomas.”

“Shh. Don’t speak.” Thomas licked into the lieutenant’s mouth, rubbed himself against the solid thigh he straddled. “Don’t move.” He pressed a kiss to one fringe of eyelashes, then the other, before dipping the tip of his tongue into the cleft in Edward’s chin. “Just lay back and let me do all the work tonight.” His hands were busy opening trousers and pushing aside drawers, his breath catching as his fingers closed around a column of hot flesh. “Let me have you…”

Edward moaned. “You’re so good, Thomas.”

Thomas buried his face in the lieutenant’s dark hair, hiding his wicked smile.

He was most definitely not.


	12. Sweet Enticements: James Fitzjames/Francis Crozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _entice_ , requested by wildcard47

They had at last settled on a play to perform - a farce entitled _Two Travelers to the Jade Sea_ \- and Crozier had been prevailed upon to portray Captain Shillingford, the senior explorer on a quest to a fantastical kingdom. His scenes were few, his lines blessedly fewer, and for most of the play he sat ensconced on a chair against a background scenery of sand dunes and palm fronds that had been lovingly labored over by the men during the preceding week.

Despite the bone-chilling temperature on deck, the men seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the play: primarily, Crozier suspected, for the chance to see their officers make idiots of themselves. At least his costume - the robes of a mythical dukedom - were tolerably warm, warmer certainly than young Des Voeux would be when he came gyrating onto the makeshift stage in the gauzy veils and wimple of a quasi-medieval dancing woman. Crozier gritted his teeth in dread. It would no doubt be the highlight of the evening for the men when Des Voeux, batting painted eyelids, came and perched himself on Crozier’s knee while whispering what the script termed ‘sweet enticements’ in his ear. During their last rehearsal, Des Voeux’s ‘enticements’ had run thus:

_“Sorry, sir. I forgot to put away my calipers once I’d finished with the charts, and I stowed them in my back pocket. I hope they’re not jabbing you in the thigh.”_

_“Well they bloody well are!” Crozier had snarled._

He consoled himself with the thought that it would soon be over. The men would roar, the proverbial curtain would fall, and he would return to his cabin: to a bottle of whiskey and Jopson’s gentle sympathy for what he had been made to endure.

“She comes!” Irving, standing at the foot of the stage and dressed as an itinerant holy man of some sort, gestured dramatically beyond the row of lanterns that served as footlights, and through the ranks of men a sinuous figure appeared. Crozier groaned.

As expected, the men roared with rowdy laughter. Yet it was louder and more sustained than even Crozier had anticipated. Looking more closely at the figure swathed in multicolored veils as it ascended the stage, he understood why and his stomach turned over. The “lady” was considerably taller than Des Voeux, and seemed to be basking in the attention of the audience to an inordinate degree.

“Jesus wept,” Crozier muttered.

The veiled figure turned to face him, dark eyes sparkling inside thick circles of kohl. The audience fell silent.

“Your line!” This was hissed at Crozier by Little, who stood a few feet to his left, clad in a similar robe. It had taken some time to convince the lieutenant to take the role of the younger explorer, but he had finally come around after Jopson had commented on how handsome the costumes for the main characters would look. _“Your line!”_

Crozier waved his hand briskly to shut him up, then cleared his throat, projecting loudly. “What vision is this? Come, beauteous lady, and place yourself on my aged knee for a time!”

Fitzjames slung himself none too gently onto Crozier’s lap and the men howled, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. As Irving resumed his monologue, Fitzjames leaned his head close to Crozier’s to whisper his ‘sweet enticements.’

“Hello Francis. Enjoying yourself?”

“Not anymore. What are you doing? You were supposed to be Des Voeux.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I had no idea you were so fond of Charles.”

“I’m not, but he’s two stone lighter, at least.” He groaned, shifting uncomfortably, and Fitzjames snickered.

“Well, Des Voeux’s several inches less a man than me,” he whispered, and Crozier wished he hadn’t understood the ribald implication of the words.

“You didn’t think I’d be miserable enough doing this? You had to add to my discomfort?”

“Is that what I’m doing? Come, cheer up, Francis. The men are happy, you have me on your knee, and - well, if I may be so bold, you look quite fetching in your regal robes. And at the risk of sounding like a hussy--" Fitzjames leaned in, pulling down the veil that hid half his face so he could put his lips against Crozier’s ear-- “I think you should ravish me.”

Fitzjames’s teeth bit into Crozier’s earlobe, and like a shot he was off, up to the front of the stage to join Irving. Crozier, jolted by the surprise nip, had pushed backwards in his chair: over correcting, the front two legs came up and he tumbled backwards flat to the deck, legs still dangling over the chair’s edge.

The men’s laughter was deafening. Crozier got a glimpse of Fitzjames, dropping character and giving the audience a shrug. “There’s always someone out to steal your spotlight, men.”

_To be or not to be_. Hamlet had it all wrong, Crozier thought. _To punch or to kiss_. That was the real question.


	13. Latitude and Longitude: James Fitzjames/Henry Le Vesconte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for jamesfitzjamesfitzjames, who requested the prompt _ogle_

“You wanted me?”

James smiled and let the words stand without comment. Nodding, he beckoned Henry into the great cabin, closing the door behind him. “Take a look at these maps, Dundy. Tell me what you think of our situation.”

Henry arched an eyebrow, its darkness contrasting with the fall of silver curls laying against his temple. “Our situation?” He walked to the table, drumming his fingers against the first chart spread out upon its surface. “Desperate, is what I’d call it.”

“Now, now Henry. I get enough naysaying from the other ship.” James settled into the chair at the end of the table, pulling it back a little to give himself the best possible vantage point. “If I’d wanted doom and gloom poured into my ears, I’d have summoned Crozier. I require some of your effervescent positivity.”

This elicited an even higher arch of the eyebrow. “When have I ever been effervescent?”

James smirked. “Well, I seem to remember some moments in the sun off the coast of Madagascar…”

“That was the palm oil,” Henry noted drily, returning his gaze to the maps. “The surgeon on the _Clio_ promised it would keep me from burning.”

“Mmm. Didn’t quite, did it? And yet nothing required you to swan about the deck without a shirt on.”

“I don’t remember you complaining.” Unlike those bygone days, Henry was currently fully clothed, though he’d left his coat in his cabin and wore only a vest over his white knit jumper. He came around to the other side of the table, bracing his hands upon its surface as he leaned down to more closely study the charts, and James craned his neck to admire the way the broadcloth of Henry’s trousers shaped snugly to his lean backside.

“You didn’t keep a particularly tight ship, did you?” Henry commented after a few moments, betraying how his own thoughts continued to sail along bright African coasts.

“I preferred a loose one. Though some things were tight enough, if I recall.” James tried to suppress a grin and failed miserably. “That palm oil had its uses…”

Henry sighed. “The places your mind goes, James, would open brand new vistas to the Admiralty, I’m sure.”

“Is it any wonder I joined the Discovery Service then?” James laughed.

“I would have thought you’d discovered everything by now.”

“Oh no, my dearest Dundy. There are always more hidden wonders waiting to be found.” James wet his lips as he watched Henry stroll slowly along the length of the table, one hand trailing over the maps. His gaze skipped down the glinting gold buttons of the lieutenant’s vest, venturing father south. _Still dressing to the right_ , he thought, as if anything would have changed.

“I’m still not convinced this island connects with Boothia,” Henry said at last, looking back at James. “On what other points would you like my opinion?”

“Hmmm?” James startled, giving him a bewildered look. “What were you saying?”

Henry folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the table, glowering at James. “Why exactly did you want me to look at these maps?”

James gestured helplessly. “I’ve found, Henry, that the life of a captain can be a lonely one. Leadership is isolating. Can I be blamed for inventing reasons to summon my dearest friend for a few moment’s conversation?”

“James. You forget how well I know you. Your summoning me here has nothing to do with talking. Or looking at maps.”

“Now that last part is wrong.” James stood and prowled toward Henry, his movements slow and feline. “I did want you to look at the maps. So I could look at you.”

He pressed his face to the bare skin between Henry’s collar and his jawline, laying his tongue against the pulse point throbbing there. Henry’s fingers combed into James’s thick hair, gently at first, then gripping to pull him back so Henry could look into his eyes.

“If this is what you needed, James,” he whispered, “you need only have asked. Your every wish is my command, you know.”


	14. A Reminder: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for theiceandbones, who requested the prompt _cheer_

From the moment he’d climbed out of his bunk that morning, nothing had gone right for Thomas Jopson.

He’d stubbed a toe already numb with cold against the desk in his cabin, the sting of recirculating blood sharpened by the ache. He’d nicked himself while shaving and dropped one of his mittens into the wash basin just after breaking its crust of ice. He’d forgone both gloves rather than wear a sodden one into the great cabin, the palm of his hand nearly freezing against the metal of the coal scuttle as he fed the stove.

But these were private frustrations, and thus bearable for all their discomfort. It was only when - in a moment of unaccustomed clumsiness - he’d knocked over a tureen of soup at the midday mess, that Jopson had to consider the day a thorough disaster. Though not a drop of soup had spilled on the sleeve or trouser leg of any officer, and though most of the dish had been salvaged, he’d apologized profusely to the gathered men, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment and frustration. And although all the men, including the captain, had brushed aside the incident and told him not to give it another thought, Jopson had spent the rest of the meal in a cloud of self-recriminating misery, replaying the moment again and again in his mind and cursing himself for his sloppiness.

He’d barely been able to meet any of the officers’ eyes as they’d risen from the table and shuffled out of the room, and their various conversations about afternoon duties and changes in the weather passed by his ears like errant drafts. He was left alone with a dozen dirty dishes and a cloth stained brown with puréed vegetables that would need to be scrubbed and soaked and wrung out before it could be used again. Sighing, he began to stack the dishes, face still hot with shame, the usual buoyancy of his mood weighted down beneath discouragement. Thomas Jopson’s life was his work: if he could not do that well, he felt he’d failed at everything.

He was so enwrapped in his misery that he did not turn when the door behind him slid swiftly open and was pulled closed again. He continued to work, roused from his blue thoughts only when two arms encircled his waist and a warm mouth pressed against a tender spot on his neck, just below his ear.

Jopson stopped and closed his eyes, leaning back, letting Edward kiss him, allowing himself those few, fleeting seconds to feel the soft suction of the lieutenant’s lips, the brush of his nose, the grip of his hands. Then, without a word, Edward was gone, slipping back through the door and shutting it behind him. Jopson breathed deeply, the scents of Edward’s shaving foam and cologne lingering around him.

He went back to stacking dishes with a smile on his face, the frustration of the day disappearing like icicles melting in the sun.

Perhaps his life wasn’t just about his work after all.


	15. Delirium: James Fitzjames/Francis Crozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for disasterpirate who requested the prompt _mislead_

His intervals of consciousness were fleeting, dream and reality bleeding into one another. Strolling through a spring garden at Sophia’s side, he heard Jopson’s voice booming around him like the utterance of God; sitting inside an opera house watching _Don Giovanni_ , the cracking of the ice was like thunder. Sometimes when his eyes fluttered open he saw nothing but amorphous shadows slipping in and out his cabin door, while at other times the oil lamps glared as brightly as the naked sun, sending a blinding pain to stab lance-like through his skull. Often he saw things he knew, even in his delirium, could not be there, like Colleen Foley’s cow, filling up the cabin with its bulk while placidly chewing its cud, or James Ross standing at the writing desk, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and talking animatedly of some incident during that long winter at Igloolik.

Or James Fitzjames, perched on the edge of the bunk, staring down at him with dark eyes wet with worry.

On the fifth or sixth occasion of conjuring up the illusion of Fitzjames’s presence, Francis decided to speak to it. Why, he wasn’t sure: out of boredom, perhaps, or the certainty that by interrogating his own hallucination he might chase it away. He squinted hard until the square line of that jaw came into perfect focus and the phantasm’s eyes returned his gaze.

“Water.”

To Francis’s astonishment, the illusion jumped up and he felt the mattress shift beneath him, as if a weight really had been removed. The shade of Fitzjames returned to the bunk, holding a glass, and one hand slid behind Francis’s head to help him lean up to drink. “Just a little now.” The fingers were long and warm, the voice familiar.

“James?” Francis licked water across his chapped lips. “You-- you’re really here?”

Fitzjames resumed his seat on the edge of the bunk and cleared his throat. “I, uh-- came over to confer with Thomas about the ice. We used your cabin and had just finished our business when Jopson needed to step out for a moment. I volunteered to watch you while he was gone.”

Francis’s sluggish brain processed this, piece by piece. “I thought I was hallucinating.”

Fitzjames snorted. “It’s so difficult to believe I would do Jopson a favor, is it?”

“No.” Francis shook his head against the pillow: even the slowness of the movement made him feel vaguely sea sick. “I see things that aren’t really there sometimes. James Ross, Parry. My sister.” Remembering with a sharp thump of his heart, he added: “Sophia.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, then.” Fitzjames turned away, studying the patterns the oil lamps threw on the cabin wall. “By being both real and not one of the faces you’d most prefer to see.”

“I’ve seen you most of all.”

“I beg your pardon?” Fitzjames was staring at him again.

Sleep pressed hard against Francis’s eyelids; he fought to keep them open, but it was a losing battle. His voice slurred under its power. “You-- I’ve seen you more than anyone else. Sitting just there. Were you-- were you really here then too, or…” He trailed off.

“I’m afraid you must have imagined me on those occasions.”

Francis barely had the strength to nod. “Thank you, James.”

“For what?”

“For watching over me, even this once.”

He was fading, falling backwards into the weightless, watery expanse of sleep, but Francis was aware of the gentle press of a hand against his where it lay atop the blanket.

When he next woke with some measure of lucidity, it was Jopson he saw sitting at the side of his bunk, head bowed over some sewing.

“Thomas…”

“You’re awake, sir.” Putting down his work, Jopson beamed at him and stood, coming to lay a fresh wet cloth across his brow. “How are you feeling?”

“F–Fitzjames. He was here, the last time I woke…”

“He’s been here many times, sir. At least four times this week.”

It took Francis a moment to remember what Fitzjames had told him. “Came-- to talk to Blanky. About the ice.”

“Today, sir?” Jopson shook his head. “He couldn’t have. Mr. Blanky went over to _Erebus_ early this morning to visit with Mr. Reid and only returned about half an hour ago. Captain Fitzjames came today for the same reason he always does: to check on you.”

Francis puzzled over this. For what possible reason could Fitzjames have felt the need to lie? He turned the question over and over inside his mind until he’d molded it into a shape, a possibility, the contours of which made a sensation stir deep within him, strange for its long absence.

It felt like joy.


	16. The Captain's Steward: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for theiceandbones, who requested the prompt _kisses exchanged while one person sits on the other’s lap_ from [this list](https://distantcowboynoises.tumblr.com/post/183007700425/50-types-of-kisses-writing-prompts).

Thomas seemed tireless, though Edward knew that wasn’t true. After all, he’d watched the steward fall asleep in his arms halfway through a conversation, watched him struggle against sleepiness when the officers lingered too late in the captain’s cabin over their drinks and pipes and games. And he’d frequently been the cause of Thomas’s exhaustion, as Thomas had been the cause of his: something neither of them could feel the least regret about, no matter how miserable it made the following day.

Tasked with caring for the captain during his convalescence, however, Thomas seemed immune to his own needs. Edward sat at the table, weary with the day’s cares, watching Thomas rush about, going into Crozier’s sleeping quarters with clean towels and leaving with dirty glasses, crossing the cabin to feed the stove and put away charts and books. He took the captain’s dinner dishes to the galley and returned with an armful of fresh linens, disappearing into Crozier’s berth for some time before finally coming out again, sliding the door shut at his back and giving Edward a gentle smile.

“He’s asleep.”

“Time for you to get some rest, then,” Edward urged him. “You’ve done your duty.”

Shaking his head, Thomas walked over to where Edward sat. He looked down shyly, toying with one of the buttons on his waistcoat as he approached, and Edward’s heart flipped a somersault in his chest. There was something enchanting to him about Thomas’s tendency toward bashfulness despite all the intimacies they’d shared.

“I’ve not done all of it, by any means. I’ve yet to take care of my other captain.” He came to a stop at Edward’s side, reaching out to push a lock of the lieutenant’s hair behind his ear.

Catching his hand, Edward pressed his mouth to Thomas’s wrist. “You needn’t call me that, you know.”

“What else should I call the man currently in charge of the ship? Besides, I like calling you ‘captain.’” He leaned forward, kissing the top of Edward’s head, rubbing his face in the thickness of the lieutenant’s hair. “It suits you.”

“Well, in that case…” Edward began unbuttoning Thomas’s waistcoat. “Your captain commands you to sit.” He slid his hands inside the garment, wrapped his arms around Thomas’s waist and pulled him down on his lap.

Thomas’s mouth met Edward’s with an eagerness that belied any tiredness he might have felt. He stroked Edward’s cheek as he changed the angle of his kiss, tongue dipping in to brush slowly along Edward’s, pulling a low desperate growl from the lieutenant’s chest.

“I will do anything to please my captain.” Thomas whispered, rubbing the tip of his nose against Edward’s cheek. He trailed open-mouthed kisses along Edward’s jaw, suckling at the hinge of bone beneath his earlobe, returning every few seconds to Edward’s waiting mouth. “Anything he desires.”

“This,” Edward murmured, his hands traveling down to knead at Thomas’s backside, “this is all he desires.” He couldn’t stop feasting on Thomas’s mouth: the slide of his tongue, the slot of his soft lips, was too delicious to part from. Had Crozier emerged at the door of his berth at that moment, Edward wasn’t at all sure that he wouldn’t have continued kissing Thomas, eyeing the captain around the steward’s body and holding up his hand for Crozier to wait until he’d taken his fill.

“Only this?” Thomas asked, and though the dimpled grin he gave Edward was playful, the heaviness of his breath suggested more serious intentions. He got to his feet briefly, turning so he could face Edward straight on, and settled back on his lap with his thighs straddling Edward’s waist. “Isn’t there anything else I can do for my captain?” Thomas cupped Edward’s face with both his hands, fingertips running through his whiskers, mouthing his words against Edward’s lips. “Please?”

It all played out in Edward’s mind: he would pick Thomas up in his arms and, turning, lay him down on the table. He would spread him out like one of the captain’s charts and bare every inch of his landscape to the prolonged scrutiny of his exploring mouth. He would bend him over the table’s edge and take him until Thomas’s cries of pleasure and the protest of the boards roused the captain from his sleep.

Someday, maybe. For now, he merely added that fantasy to his every growing list. He held Thomas tightly as he kissed him, as Thomas’s hands passed down his chest and began working the buttons of his trousers loose.

“What a cruel captain I would be,” Edward whispered, his voice catching when Thomas’s fingers slipped inside his drawers, “to demand this of you after such a long day of work.”

“It would be cruel of you not to.” Thomas shifted his hips, giving Edward room to unfasten his trousers in turn. “I’ve wanted this all day. And it’s no work. After all, I’m still sitting down.” Grinning, he wrapped his arms around Edward’s neck and rocked against him, and soon they were lost in the heat of their kisses and the friction of their movements, and the rhythmic thumping of the chair legs was lost beneath the groaning of the ice outside.


	17. Mesmerized: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _ogle_

He tried to think of Sophia.

There had been a time - not so very long ago - when that would have been the easiest thing in the world, as natural to him as drawing breath. She was so ever-present in his mind that her image was painted upon every scene he surveyed: golden-haired and glowing against cabin wall or log book page or field of ice. Those were the days when he’d endeavored not to think of her, lest her name drop unbidden from his lips or her shapely silhouette distract him from his duties. Then all he had wanted was to end the day so that, released from his obligations, he might drift off chasing the ghost of her, might close his eyes and be lost in the mirage of her nearness.

Now that he needed a distraction, he found he could no longer summon her. He was left instead at the mercy of each new moment and the traitorous action of his eyes, directed by a brain fast filling itself up with new shapes, new obsessions. Where once he’d fixated on the curl laying against Sophia’s bare white shoulder, now he found himself enthralled by the golden watch fob that glinted against the creamy fabric of James’s waistcoat. Every time the man moved it winked from the shadows of his coat, and Francis stared at it the way a hypnotized man followed the medallion a mesmerist dangled before his face.

The fingers of James’s hands: long and agile, curled around a teacup or toying with a button on his cuff. Tracing a river on a chart or spearing down upon the surface of a table, emphasizing his every word. When, Francis wondered, had that traitorous part of his mind started fantasizing about those fingers walking their way along the seam that ran down the inner thigh of his trousers? When had he started to imagine the shape of those fingertips against his tongue, their purposeful slide between the barrier of his lips?

Once he’d watched James leave a room with the relief of a man freed of a burden; now he watched him leave to see his body move, broad shoulders shifting in tandem with lean hips. He watched him come back with yet more rapt fascination, for reasons his mind would not concede even as his eyes honed on their target. Every interaction with the man had become a test for Francis, one in which irritation and desire warred for dominance, one he prolonged at the cost of hot words just to see James’s jaw clench, the muscles in his throat contract. He watched heat rise in his fellow captain’s face with the same attention he’d once given the ice, and felt the triumph of rousing that color, a small private victory in the midst of a long, losing battle.

He was a sailor in the crow’s nest, untouched by all but the wind. How long could this lonely watch endure? Already the looking had ceased to be enough for him: he’d done so much of it that every inch of James was imprinted visually in his imagination, ready to be called up for use in every shameful fantasy. But it was muscle memory Francis longed for: not just to see in his mind those distinctive lines in James’s face, but to know the feel of them against his mouth.


	18. Clear and Placid Waters: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for lafiametta who requested _morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter_ from [this list of prompts](https://distantcowboynoises.tumblr.com/post/183007700425/50-types-of-kisses-writing-prompts).

In his dream, he’d been swimming in the Mediterranean.

The water, warm as the sunlight he’d felt on the beach at Tenerife, had wrapped around his naked limbs, but he’d felt no fear despite his lack of skill. He’d felt a weightless euphoria instead, a joy that buoyed him up like the lightest of sloops skimming over the waves beneath full sail. Edward had been there, holding and guiding him, their legs entangled beneath the water, and Thomas had wished with all his slumbering mind that they might stay forever like that, skin to skin, cradled by a gentle sea.

The bell woke him, its tolling faint and hollow as if ringing somewhere across a field, or under the ice. Thomas stirred but kept his eyes closed, unwilling yet to leave the Mediterranean, the placid rock of its waves, the sensuous slip of its current between his thighs and along his back. He burrowed into the heat at his side, one hand groping along a cord of muscle, and his mouth sought flesh, pressing softly against a length of stubble that bobbed at his touch.

Feeling movement, Thomas raised his chin a little, his lips meeting another pair that parted against his own, and he licked lazily at their soft line, a little shudder of excitement wriggling its way down his spine and into his stomach. With a small mewl he pressed himself forward, his mouth fitting against that other mouth like two halves of one whole, and he sucked at its tender wetness without conscious thought, kissing by instinct. His hand moved again, up the curve of a shoulder and the line of a neck, until his fingers plunged into a plushness of hair. The arms that held him tightened and drew him closer, and the mouth against his own lapped and nibbled, moving down to press a hot line along his throat.

The bell continued to toll, but as Thomas lifted his heavy eyelids he realized - with a rush of relief that almost made him sob - that it was a church bell, ringing in the tower of some chapel in the village miles away. And the bed he lay in was not a cramped bunk stuffed into the end of a ship’s cabin, but a four-poster draped deep in sheets of Egyptian cotton and a silken counterpane. Morning sunlight, as crystalline as the rays that touched the Mediterranean, filtered through the curtains of Crozier’s country house, and Edward Little lay naked and peaceful in his arms.

He had no need for dreams of a distant temperate sea, not when this was his reality. Basking in the luxury of having no reason to rise, Thomas opened his eyes fully to drink in the sight of the tousled dark hair and freckles sharing his pillow, eyes rimmed with long lashes still closed. “Good morning, love,” he murmured, tracing the line of a brow with his fingers, and the dark eyes opened to meet his, sunlight pooling like oil in their depths. “Did you know it was me you were kissing,” Thomas asked teasingly, “or did you hope it was someone else?”

“I knew exactly who I was kissing,” Edward answered, and he brushed his lips against the tip of Thomas’s nose. “Only I was sure I was dreaming and I didn’t want to ever wake.”


	19. Voracious Reading: John Bridgens/Henry Peglar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for pottedmusic who requested the prompt _exasperate_

John Bridgens whistled as he tidied up his cabin, anticipating at any moment a soft knock upon the door. A party of Terrors had just arrived across the ice for a visit, Henry Peglar among them, and Bridgens had plans for a pleasant afternoon of literary analysis. He shook out a freshly laundered blanket and draped it over his bunk, his pulse quickening, He would pull it over Henry and himself and they would nestle together against the hull, reading from the book held in his right hand while his left ventured where it pleased.

There were too few of these times now, with them berthing on separate ships. He remembered their last voyage together when every night they’d found some excuse to steal away. Sometimes they could spare only minutes, but they made the most of the time they had, no matter how brief, turning those cycles of seconds into breathless eternities: hot mouths meeting, hands searching, promises whispered before regretfully parting.

What time they could stand to take from one another they spent on John’s books. He’d held Henry’s hand in his, moving his finger beneath each word as he’d helped him remember the order of letters, how to pronounce them phonetically. As their attraction had deepened, Henry’s literacy had grown too, until both were expressed voraciously, never seeming satisfied.

The knock came and, turning, John passed a hand over his hair before sliding the door open. Henry’s warm smiled greeted him and John’s blood ran as hot and fiercely as that of a man half his age.

“Good afternoon.”

“It’s good to see you, Henry. Please, come in.” He ushered the younger man inside as he might have done any of the men of _Erebus_ coming to select some reading material. But as soon as he closed the door, he turned and took the younger man in his arms.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I wanted to come sooner, but the captain’s been keeping us busy. And with that thing out there, attacking at random, he’s cut down on the number of trips between ships.”

“I understand.” He kissed Henry, once on the lips, again on the brow, holding his face gently in both hands. “Don’t feel badly. We have our duties, and what can we do but obey them? But now we may treat ourselves to a little break.” He raised one eyebrow quizzically. “Well? Have you started _The Bride of Lammermoor_? If you have, I thought perhaps we might go through chapter five together, unless you’ve yet to get that far…”

He broke off, watching the curious expression on Henry’s face. The younger man reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out the book, offering it to John.

“I finished it,” he said, voice hardly more than a whisper.

“You– you’ve already finished chapter five?”

Henry winced. “No. I finished the book.”

John stared at him silently for a moment. Then, with a hearty laugh, he grasped Henry by the shoulders. “That’s fantastic!”

“You’re not angry?”

“Angry?” John stroked Henry’s cheek. “Henry, when we first met you could only write your name, and barely read more than that. Now you’re racing through every book I give you: not to please me, but because you want to. I couldn’t be happier.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against Henry’s. “Exasperated, yes. But angry? Not at all.”

Beaming, Henry rested his brow against John’s. “Next time, I promise I’ll be more patient.”

“I’ll make certain of it. I’ll find you the driest book I can find. One I’ll have to ride you constantly to get you to finish.”

Henry’s grin was infectious. “I like the sound of that.”

“Come on, naughty boy.” Taking his hand, John tugged him toward the bunk. “Let’s get you warm and have a nice long catch-up. And who knows? Maybe we’ll get around to discussing the novel too.”


	20. Reckless and Vain: James Fitzjames/Francis Crozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for sweetangelcat, who requested the prompt _exasperate_

“You are, without a doubt, the most irritating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”

James said this with a little huff of his breath and a roll of his eyes. Nonplussed, Francis shrugged.

“That’s high praise indeed, coming from someone who served with Chesney.”

“You know him?” James seemed surprised.

“I met him once.” Francis’s tone left no doubt as to his opinion of his fellow Irishman. “Stubborn, intemperate, and reckless. And I gleaned all that from a five-minute conversation.”

“Well, it’s never hard to recognize one’s own characteristics in another.”

Francis’s eyes narrowed. “I am not reckless.”

“No? Then what would you call proposing marriage to a woman who’s already rejected you once?”

“Oh, don’t you dare drag Sophia into this--"

“And though I may grant that Chesney is everything you said he is, at least he wasn’t so mired in self-pity that he lowered the morale of his entire crew.”

Francis’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again like a beached fish. “The morale of my crew is fine!”

“Have you met Lieutenant Little?” James asked. “That man perpetually wears the expression of a kicked dog. Not that I blame him.” James sighed. “Imagine having to be your second.”

“James, you are my second!” Francis practically roared.

“But at least I have a separate ship to escape to.”

“And yet,” Francis said, his voice low and soft, “you’re here.”

James regarded him for a moment, then tilting back his head, he let out a great barking laugh that exposed the long white line of his throat. “And yet I’m here.”

The bunk was barely wide enough to accommodate them both, but they made the best of it, pressed close, arms encircling. It was easy for Francis to rub his face against the curve of that throat and nibble at the Adam’s apple that bobbed with James’s laughter.

“And I’m glad of it,” he whispered, “though I strain your patience so.”

“That you do. But not more than I strain yours, I suspect.”

”I wasn’t going to say anything, but since you’ve broached the subject…”

“Oh, here we go.” Turning his head, James pressed a kiss to Francis’s lips, his dark eyes gleaming. “Out with it then.”

“You must admit to being a bit full of yourself.”

James’s expression was one of mock astonishment. “Full of my… I can’t understand you, Francis. I’m merely a man aware of my own worth--"

“Well aware of it.”

“--and there’s nothing wrong with that. But do go on. What else have you to accuse me of?”

Francis smirked. “Vanity.”

“Poppycock. Did you not see me go bottoms-up in the native skin boat off Greenland? Were those the actions of a vain man, I ask you?”

“I just assumed you wanted everyone to see your bum.”

“That’s it.” James rose, feigning indignity as Francis dissolved with laughter. “I will not stay one moment longer to endure such abuse.” He grabbed his coat from where he’d slung it over Francis’s writing desk. “My vanity cannot bear it.”

“No, come back!” Grinning, Francis flung out his arm, reaching for James’s hand. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior from this moment on.”

“Alas, I’ve been too long away from my command. And besides,” James smiled, “you promising to be on your best behavior gives me no incentive to stay.”

They had been lounging together in the bunk for upwards of an hour, conversing between kisses with an ease neither man would have anticipated in the early days of the voyage. Francis conceded - regretfully - that it was time for James to return to Erebus, but he held on to his hand a little longer nonetheless.

“By God, it’s good to see you smile,” James told him.

Francis raised James’s hand to his lips, pressing reverent kisses to his knuckles. “Thank you for giving me a reason to.”


	21. Entangled: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed_ , requested by lafiametta

The captain’s storeroom was nine feet by nine feet, not counting the shelving that protruded into the space, nor the chests and casks that lined every wall. Two men should have been able to cross the small room without incident, but when the two men in question were moving with tangled tongues and groping hands, the task became more difficult to accomplish successfully.

“I have to have you.” Edward Little muttered these words with his mouth open against Thomas Jopson’s jaw, one arm shrugging free of his greatcoat while the opposite hand grasped the steward’s waist. Moaning, Thomas angled his face to catch Edward’s mouth again, pushing his tongue between the lieutenant’s lips while tearing off his own waistcoat. The back of his thighs struck against a cask of sugar, which bumped in turn against a crate of extra tableware behind it.

“Then take me.” Thomas raked the fingers of one hand through Edward’s hair while the other worked at the buttons of the lieutenant’s trousers. Grasping him by the hip and the back of the neck, Edward turned Thomas away from the sugar cask, and they kissed deeply while moving a few more steps, until halted again by the shelving. The tins lined along its length jostled together with a dull clanging sound.

“I can’t get enough of you,” Edward growled, nipping at the delicate skin covering Thomas’s trachea before returning to his supple, swollen lips. “Every moment just makes me want more.” He slid his knee between the steward’s legs, bending it up, and Thomas whimpered into his mouth, rubbing himself forward against the hard line of Edward’s thigh. His fingers dug into the fabric of Edward’s waistcoat, pushing it back from his broad shoulders, biting sharply down on Edward’s earlobe as he watched the garment fall to the floor. One of the lieutenant’s hands caressed his backside, fingers curling greedily into the tender flesh.

“You’re welcome to all of me.” Thomas panted the words into the angle of Edward’s jaw. He worked his fingers between the lieutenant’s stomach and the waist of his trousers, thrusting one hand down and drawing a strangled cry from Edward’s throat. Pushing against him, they moved again, stumbling back into the center of the storeroom, angling narrowly between a barrel of pickled walnuts and another sugar cask. Thomas’s fingers gripped and stroked briskly and he licked another desperate moan from Edward’s hot mouth. “It’s all I can think about anymore,” he whispered as both of Edward’s hands slid beneath his drawers, cupping his arse and pulling him harder against him. “Your body. Your mouth…”

They stumbled backwards, crashing into the shelving on the opposite wall. Locked in a searing kiss, neither of them paid the least attention to the two or three bottles that fell over at the impact, rolling along the slats of wood and hitting their neighbors with the shrill report of struck glass. They hadn’t much time, after all, every second of their assignation was precious. They’d worry about overturned stores after their shared need was satisfied.

But then one of the bottles tipped at just the right angle and rolled off the shelf, shattering on the floor with the sharp report of a gunshot.

Thomas went still and Edward groaned: not so much from the shock of the sound as from the sensitive place where Thomas’s fingers had stopped and reflexively tightened in mid-stroke.

“Do you think anyone heard that?” The whispered words, falling inside his ear, sent maddening tingles racing in a frenzy over Edward’s scalp.

“The men are at the birthday celebration in the fo’c’sle. Between the sounds of the ice and the fiddle, I doubt they’d hear one of the cannons being fired.”

“Well then…” Grinning, Thomas licked a trail along Edward’s jaw until he reached the lieutenant’s open, pliant mouth. His hand fell back into its piston-like rhythm. “As we’re speaking of guns close to discharging their shot--"

Snarling, Edward claimed Thomas’s mouth again and thrust into his grasp, pushing the steward backwards. Focused on nothing but the twin heat of Edward’s mouth and cock, Thomas took a step, missing the narrow gap between the casks of walnuts and sugar and bumping into the corner of another chest of spare china. Had its lid been secure, Thomas would probably have done nothing more than sit down hard upon it; at some point, however, the lid had been loosened, and the angle at which Thomas snagged it sent it sliding askew. Knocked off balance, Thomas tipped backwards, taking Edward with him, and the two tumbled hard to the floor, catching their legs on the crate and turning it over in the process.

“Mr. Jopson, is that you in there? Dear God, are you alright?”

They heard the voice at the same time, its trajectory suggesting a person just then descending the forward ladder. Thomas and Edward had only enough time to fasten the front falls of their trousers before the door slid open, another lantern thrust into the room.

“Good lord! What’s happened?”

George Hodgson gazed wide-eyed at the ship’s first lieutenant and the captain’s steward, sprawled in a tangle over the top of an overturned crate. The straw in which the dishes inside had been packed had spilled across the boards and various blue-patterned plates, saucers, and tea cups had rolled out, some fracturing into wedges of various size, one coming to a stop near the shattered bottle from the shelf, its oily contents still slowly soaking into the oaken slats.

“It was my fault, sir.” Twisting upright and raising himself to his knees, Thomas swiped a fall of hair from his forehead and began brushing straw and chips of china from the front of his jumper. “Lieutenant Little kindly offered to help me shift these stores, but the space is so narrow and I’m afraid I’m so used to working alone, that I got right in his way. Tripped over my own feet and took him down with me.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Jopson.” Wincing, Edward pulled his left leg free of the crate, nudging splinters of wood from the toe of his boot. Thomas noticed that he’d placed a plate strategically over his groin, and he bit down on a perverse urge to start laughing. “Damn crate was heavier than I’d thought.”

“Thank God you’re both alright,” Hodgson cried. “You could be seriously injured in such a way.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Edward murmured beneath his breath.

“I feel the worse, sir, for causing such an accident, when all the lieutenant wished to do was help.” Thomas’s voice was tense with the desperate need to say something, anything, before the temptation to laugh proved too powerful for his discretion.

“That was very kind of you, Edward,” Hodgson conceded, “though I think I have found out your secret. The offer was hardly a selfless one, was it?”

Edward’s glance shifted immediately to Thomas, who’d gone as still as a cornered animal, all the blood draining from his face.

“How’s that, George?”

“Well it’s surprisingly close in here, isn’t it?” Hodgson leaned against the door frame, his free hand plucking at his neckcloth. “Almost steamy. I can see why you’ve doffed your coats.”

Edward and Thomas turned their heads in unison, taking in the state of the greatcoats, waistcoats, and neckcloths they’d torn off in the throes of their passion. The garments were strewn carelessly about the room, laying where they’d been tossed, obviously discarded in the greatest of haste.

“It must be something about the pipes in so small a space,” Hodgson mused thoughtfully. “I mean to say, you wouldn’t expect it down here on the orlop, but it warms it up really wonderfully, doesn’t it? I’m tempted to offer my assistance the next time you’re in need, Mr. Jopson, just for the luxury of experiencing such balmy conditions!”

Thomas was biting down hard upon his bottom lip. “Thank you, sir,” he offered when he felt he could risk it. “I would be most grateful.”

Hodgson nodded, smiling affably. “Well, now that I know you’re both uninjured, I’ll let you continue your work. See you up top.” And he slid the door shut behind him, his footsteps fading as he ascended the ladder.

For a few moments Thomas and Edward neither spoke nor moved. But when their eyes finally met, both men instantly crumpled into paroxysms of laughter so intense and breathless that they made no sound, simply clutching their chests and rolling against each other in helpless hilarity.

The window of opportunity for accomplishing what had brought them to the storeroom in the first place had, unfortunately, passed. But the laughter was its own precious kind of release. Gradually, the convulsions lessened enough to allow Thomas to grasp hold of Edward’s shirt and pull himself over to rest his chin on the lieutenant’s still-heaving chest.

“Hodgson, bless him,” Edward gasped, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“If it had been anyone but him…”

“How is it possible, Thomas, that that man has fathered five children?”

“Five?” Thomas echoed the word in astonishment. He’d known Hodgson had a wife and family back in England, but he hadn’t realized the brood was so extensive. “Well, I suppose we must conclude that Mrs. Hodgson has never conceived any of them in the hold of a ship.”

This provoked a fresh outburst of laughter from Edward, who tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut against the swell of merriment. Thomas echoed the sentiment, half his joy sparked by the sight of the normally stolid lieutenant, his teeth bared in a massive grin, creases etched deep at the corners of his eyes.

“I’ll help you clean up this mess,” Edward said when he’d last regained his breath. He leaned over to kiss Thomas before climbing to his feet.

“Next time I’ll straighten things up in here before we come down,” Thomas said, blushing a bit.

“Next time,” Edward smirked, “we’ll stick to my cabin.”


	22. Challenge: James Fitzjames/Francis Crozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "demoralize," requested by glorioustidalwavedefendor

James Fitzjames sat at the table in the great cabin, his head hanging limply, his shoulders hunched forward, the gaze of his dark eyes dull and distant. And Francis’s first thought upon seeing him was of a doll one of his sisters had played with as a child. She’d loved the doll so fiercely, taken it on so many adventures, that eventually she’d broken it, fracturing its wooden neck, rending its limbs from their sockets, until it sat abandoned on a shelf in the nursery, looking beneath the rags of its clothing like a pile of chicken bones. He remembered having felt a stab of pain for the doll, once so handsome with its fine, hand-stitched garments and delicate painted face, and he’d wished at the time - in a fleeting, childish way - that he’d possessed the power to mend it. It must have hurt, he’d thought, to have once been so proud, and now to be so broken.

The sight of the carnivale tent devoured by flames, the men’s frivolity turned to horror, had snapped James as surely as a little girl’s tight embrace. Francis felt rage sparking and expanding inside him, the blind impotent fury of someone experiencing secondhand pain.

“I’m sorry, James. This is my fault.”

“Your fault?” James lifted his head slowly. His voice was hoarse, his eyes bleary, and Francis hoped that both were a result of smoke alone. “How do you reckon that, Francis, or did I miss you wandering about with a torch?”

“My melancholy.” Francis walked further into the cabin, closer to James but far enough not to crowd the man or make him feel trapped. There was the air of a wild bird around him, or a stag caught between the hedge and the hunter: frantic and easily spooked, ready to bolt at the least provocation.

“They say joy is infectious, but so is despair. And I planted the seeds of it. Not just on my own ship, but all through the expedition. I resigned hope before we’d ever set sail, and that hopelessness spread like pestilence.” Pulling a chair out from the table, Francis threw himself down into it with an unintentional sigh. Even his bones felt tired. “If I’d tempered my pessimism with the slightest measure of hope, if I’d looked for opportunities rather than obstructions, then maybe we wouldn’t…” He spread his hands, struggling to fix upon the right phrase. “Maybe we wouldn’t have reached a point where one of our number felt burning alive was preferable to all alternatives.”

There was a lapse of silence in which James allowed his head to dangle down again. For a moment Francis wondered if the other man had heard anything he’d said. But then James muttered something, a single word, his voice a weary exhalation.

“Ross.”

Francis shook his head. “What about him?”

“I didn’t want to be another Ross.”

“I see. You’ve talked with Thomas, then?”

“I didn’t want the men, once we’d abandoned the ships, to be walking over that godforsaken island plotting to plant a boat axe in the back of my skull.”

“James, listen to me. You could never be John Ross. Not if you tried to. Not if this place held you prisoner for a thousand years. It could never happen. You’re ten times the man John Ross is, and everything he lacks you possess in spades. The carnivale proves that. Your first concern was for the men, for their well-being, and Ross? Well, I’m sure Thomas told you: the comfort of his men was rather far down on his list of priorities. A stubborn, paranoid, curmudgeonly man. You needn’t fear that, James. Men follow you for love, not for fear. Not even for duty.” Francis paused, shaking his head. “If anyone were to get a boat axe through the skull, it would be me.”

“Don’t say that. Not even in jest.”

“I’m in earnest. And who could blame them? God knows no one’s ever followed me for love. For want of choice, maybe.”

“You know that’s not true. Jopson. Jopson loves you. Jopson would do anything for you.”

“That’s only because Jopson knows what a wreck of a man I am. Maybe he loves me. Maybe he pities me.” Francis shrugged. “Either way, he’s seen the real me. Not the pantomime Royal Navy captain stuffed into his greatcoat, parading the deck like an automaton. That fellow inspires neither love nor pity. The only thing he can inspire, on this voyage at least, is apathy. Or resentment.”

“He’s not here now.” Francis realized that James had been watching him closely, curiosity replacing the dull glaze of regret that had darkened his eyes beyond their normal tint. “The pantomime captain. The man speaking to me with such candor is, I think, the real Francis Crozier. Yet despite what you might believe, I’ve glimpsed him before. I’m quite sure the men have too.”

Francis was stunned into silence. James’s words, the almost affectionate tone in which they’d been spoken, seeped into his blood like whiskey, sending a rush of warmth through every limb. He responded as he always did when confronted with something he couldn’t quite understand: sarcastically.

“Well, I’m quite certain there were times, earlier in the voyage at least, when you were tempted to put an axe in my head yourself, James. Admit it.”

“Not once, Francis.” James seemed oblivious to Francis’s jovial tone, staring at him so intently Francis wondered for a moment if soot from the fire had made some peculiar pattern on his face. “Do you know what I wanted to do in those early days? I wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shock some joy back into you in whatever way I could.”

Just as he wanted to do now, for James. Francis felt a strange heat creep up into his face, though he couldn’t fathom its cause. “And what might you have done to accomplish that?”

James rose slowly from his chair. He was still dressed in the robes of Britannia, and the fabric rustled against his slops as he moved towards Francis. Coming to a stop just in front of him, the drapery of his costume falling across Francis’s knees, James leaned forward and braced his hands against the back of his fellow captain’s chair. Then he stooped and pressed his mouth firmly to Francis’s own.

He tasted of smoke and rum and - oddly, Francis thought - of cherries: ripe and sweet and bursting with juice. His tongue, long and slender, slid its way into Francis’s mouth and the Irishman whimpered, reaching up with one hand to cup the back of James’s neck. Leaning harder against the chair, James kissed Francis deeper, twisting his head to take him from a fresh angle, and Francis - slowly, sluggishly, forcing himself by degrees past the initial paralysis of surprise - began to respond, meeting James’s tongue with the rough thrust of his own. Groaning, James nipped at Francis’s bottom lip, tugging it out as he pulled away.

“Yes,” Francis swallowed, tasting James all the way down. His voice was a fraction of its normal volume. “That would have done the trick.” As James straightened up, Francis grabbed both his hands and brought them to his face, pressing the bare fingertips to his lips and cheek and chin. “James.”

“God, how I’ve wanted you Francis. The more you resisted me, the more you rejected me, the worse my want became.”

Francis turned James’s hands over, his lips marking the tender flesh of palms and knuckles and wrists. “This washed up Irish sailor, James? What do I have to offer you?”

James chuckled, the first hint of his accustomed humor appearing in his expression. “A challenge, dearest Francis. I set myself the task of making you happy. Of making you want me. Of making you beg for more of me, rather than wishing me away.”

“In truth, James, you succeeded at the second of those a long time past. I was just too stubborn to concede it.”

“And the first?” James freed one hand, passing kiss-dampened fingers through Francis’s hair.

“The first?” Francis squeezed the hand he yet held. “You’ve certainly made a start. But happiness, for me, will always be a work in progress. At the moment I’m far more concerned about yours.”

“Mine? I won’t deny it’s taken a beating today. But knowing now that you’re willing to let me try and accomplish the third of my goals has revived it somewhat, I must say.”

Leaning down again, James found Francis’s mouth immediately responsive. Francis looped his arms about the taller man, pulling him down against him, not sure how they’d come to this glorious moment from a place of such sorrow, but certain for the first time that miracles were still possible in this frozen hell.


	23. Secret Comforts: Edward Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "cheer," requested by tulliver, and inspired by Dancain's lovely _[Lay Right Down in my Favorite Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18392102)_

Their secret relationship had started very soon after _Terror_ sailed. On the first day he’d boarded the ship, Edward had noticed him, and their interactions from the very beginning had been cordial, even warm. But it wasn’t until that first night of rough seas off the Orkneys that the bond they shared had truly been cemented. Laying in his bunk, his body rocking with each plunge and surge of the waves, Edward had been surprised by the way the door of his cabin had suddenly slid open, a dark figure padding softly through the gloom to his side. Without a word, Edward had shifted, making room in the bunk, and through the tempest he had held his companion gently, soothing him through the worst of the storm.

They found one another each day after that: sometimes on deck, sometimes in the darkest recesses of the orlop, often in the corridor outside the captain’s cabin. Minutes were spared from the routine of the hour, given over to caresses and soft words. Edward began anticipating these little rendezvous as bright sunlit moments in the otherwise dismal, gray monotony, and he hoarded small gifts with which to delight his friend. And yet each exchange, each stroke, each sweet kiss was conducted in the shadows, for sailors are naturally jealous men and Edward was loathe to reveal the depth of their affection, lest someone should seek to usurp his place in that gentle, loving heart.

Yet it was impossible, on so small and crowded a ship, to hide such a bond indefinitely. On one particularly cold afternoon, Edward came down from the deck to report to the captain, and found the great cabin deserted. Tired to the bone, cheeks and nose chafed almost raw by the icy wind, he pulled a chair over to the stove and collapsed upon it with a deep, exhausted sigh. Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate on the heat of the stove soaking into his skin, tried to forget about the white void outside, and how fragile their little wooden facsimile of civilization was compared to the crushing bergs and sheer cliffs and silent darkness of the Arctic.

A warm nudge to his thigh roused him from his bleak thoughts.

“There’s my boy,” Edward cooed, stroking the massive black head that rested on his knee. “There’s my beautiful boy. How are you, my sweetheart? My good boy? Huh? How are you today?”

Dark eyes glistening in the glow of the lamps, Neptune swiped a thick pink tongue across Edward’s hand, leaning the heavy thickness of his body against the lieutenant’s leg. When Edward’s scratching fingers hit upon just the right spot behind the Newfoundland’s right ear, Neptune abruptly sat and thumped a back leg rhythmically against the floor, his eyes crunched up in pleasure.

Laughing, Edward reached with his free hand into the pocket of his greatcoat. “I have a little something for you, don’t I boy? Now you mustn’t tell. It’s our secret.” He pulled out a length of rope he’d sliced from a spare coil and the dog seized it in his teeth, mouthing joyfully at the twined hemp. His thick tail whipped against Edward’s shin as he turned several circles with his new toy.

“If we run out of rope on this journey, the Admiralty will have my hide,” Edward whispered, rubbing the dog’s flanks with both hands. “But I’ll run the risk for you, my darling. Come here, give me that.” And he tugged at one end of the rope, prompting Neptune to place all his prodigious weight behind his fore paws and pull back, growling playfully.

Laughing and grinning at the dog’s antics, Edward hadn’t heard the door of the cabin open, nor was he aware of being watched until someone cleared their throat. Turning, he beheld the captain standing a few feet away, arms folded over his barrel chest, a stern expression on his face.

“I should have you brought up on charges of theft, Edward.”

Edward shot to his feet, dropping his end of the rope. Having won the contest, Neptune scampered around the cabin, swinging his prize to and fro.

“It’s just a bit of rope, sir,” Edward said, stunned to watch his promising Naval career shrivel before his eyes.

“I wasn’t talking about the rope. I was talking about my dog’s affections.” The stern facade fell away, replaced by a smile and a wink of one blue eye, and Edward breathed again.

He’d enjoyed thinking for some time that he had become Neptune’s favorite. That out of all the men on Terror - including even the captain - the Newfoundland liked him best.

The warm rush of happiness he felt at that moment made up for all the cold misery outside.


	24. Held Fast: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt _a kiss paired with a tight hug, knocking the breath out of the person being hugged_ from the **[50 Types of Kisses](https://distantcowboynoises.tumblr.com/post/183007700425/50-types-of-kisses-writing-prompts)** prompt list, requested by rohnoc.

He turned away from Morfin’s body, bloody and shattered on the shale, and his gaze fell on James, standing like a white pillar in the darkness, pistol held loosely in the hand beside his thigh. A breath caught in Crozier’s throat: half a sob, half a shout, and his hands trembled with a sharp urge as those dark eyes fixed upon him. Striding forward, rocks crunching and grinding beneath each step, he grasped James’s arm and pulled the commander behind him into his nearby tent.

“Francis, the men–”

They were the only words Crozier afforded him, spoken in the seconds it took for the captain to turn and capture James’s mouth. Wrapping his arms firmly around the taller man, Crozier held him rooted, immovable, refusing with body, mind and soul to let anything seize or defile him: not poison, not scurvy, not God. He delved into James’s mouth as if to declare it sovereign territory, his own and none other’s: both hands curved and dug into the soft wool of the commander’s jumper, pulling the other man tighter, harder against the bulwark of his body. At first frozen with surprise, James melted, easing muscle by muscle into the solidity of Crozier’s embrace, and then he was returning it, long arms sliding around the shorter man, clutching with strong, slender fingers. He answered Crozier’s kiss with greater greed, tilting his head and groaning softly as he pressed against him.

There was nothing fragile about the way their mouths fought for dominance, the way their bodies crashed together, surf meeting shore. Yet the fragility of the human form, the ease of its disintegration, was fresh in Crozier’s mind, and when he realized that he was gripping hard at the nape of James’s neck with one hand, his hip with the other, he flinched back, breaking the kiss and softening his grasp, though not pulling away.

“Forgive me, James. I would not hurt you for the world.”

“Hurt me?” James still held him, hands braced against his back. “Whatever do you mean?”

Crozier’s voice was hoarse, breaking a little as he spoke. He held up his hands, considering them as he curled his fingers into fists. “My mother always said I had an Irishman’s hands. A laborer’s hands, hardened by work: even as a boy, before I’d hauled on a single rope. Broad, blunt. Ungentle.” He looked up into James’s eyes; hypnotized by their dark luster, it took him a moment to regain his thoughts. “I want to hold on to you, James. For dear life. But I’m afraid to. I don’t want to mar you, your perfection, but if I hold you the way I want to… I’ll bruise you. I’ll crack your ribs, squeeze the breath out of your lungs. I’ve destroyed lesser things by holding them too tightly.”

“Francis.” James leaned his head against Crozier’s, brow to brow. “You know I’m made of sterner stuff than that.”

“Maybe. Though maybe none of us are as invincible as we like to believe.”

“Then hold me as tightly as you can, Francis. And if you succeed where a bullet and malaria have failed and break me, well then… I already knew I’d met my match in you, and I can’t think of any way I’d rather go out.”

So Francis held him, and defied all things beneath sun and moon to try and prise them apart.


End file.
